


The Bill Cipher Anthology

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles inspired by our favorite psychopathic triangle. Open to suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is based off of the fic "Flat Dreams" written by the very talented Pengychan. Definitely give it a read if you have the chance-- it's more than worth it.
> 
> Written for a tumblr meme.

Flatland did not have colors. 

It wasn’t something that anyone had ever noticed. How could they? Such things were so beyond the line of initial comprehension, that they might as well not even exist. 

That wasn’t to say there weren’t  _theories,_ of course _._  In their society, one that was based upon a solid foundation of hard mathematics, the existence of colors would eventually rear its ugly head. What would happen if light were to travel at _x_ wavelength? Wouldn’t it look different than the hypothetical _y?_ A few of the higher minded individuals would often speculate; they’d talk and chatter and discuss the possibilities, but at the end of the day, that’s all it ever amounted to. Nothing concrete would ever come from their conversations, and if it did, then it certainly wasn’t broadcasted down to the lower castes. 

 _Enlightenment,_ the Circles would say, was a dangerous thing. Heaven forbid anything upset their perfect world order. Heaven forbid anything go against the _norm_. They’d all nod and agree, sitting up in their ivory hall, and perhaps… well, just _perhaps,_ they were right. 

–

The first time Bill had seen colors, he had been speechless. 

Painted sporadically, _nonsensically_ , against the hidden back wall of the book shop, they almost seemed to _dance_ in front of his eyes; mixing and changing and swirling and _god_ they had been beautiful. He would point to one and ask _“Does it have a name? Can you tell me about it? I need to know more_. _I need to_ learn _more.”_  

And learn he did– blues and greens and reds and, Circles above _, the yellows_ – they had been bright, they had been _painful,_ but most importantly, once he had seen them, there had been no conceivable way for him to go back.

–

So he didn’t. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, written for a tumblr meme, this is another piece inspired by Pengychan's "Flat Dreams"

If there was one thing Bill could never seem to wrap his mind around, it was the bond between family. His own parents–his birth parents–were frustratingly complacent in their attitudes, never questioning the roles that society had dealt for them, never speculating that there could be something more.

He had confronted them once on it actually. It had been his first time meeting them–he had pulled strings he was never meant to find, dug into records that were never meant to be unearthed–and was ultimately disappointed in the result. They had been weak. Quivering. _Cowering_. With no ambition to reach out and grasp for something beyond what they had been handed, he had turned his back on them, bitter and remorseless.

They didn't _deserve_ liberation. They didn't _deserve_ freedom. They didn't _deserve_ his help.

 _That_ , at the very least, had been obvious.

His adoptive parents were something more of an enigma.

It wasn't that his memories of them were negative, per se. They never treated him wrong, they gave him a good upbringing by their world's standards, and they had ultimately directed him down a path that, by all accounts, would not have been unpleasant.

And yet…

And _yet_.

There had always been a righteous anger; hot and searing and blistering in its intensity, and directed towards something that lay just outside of the boundaries of Bill's consciousness. He would often brush it off, shove it into the corner along with the Circles and his birth parents and the rigid structure that came with the limitations of Flatland, but it never felt right. It was always as if he was trying to fit two pieces of a puzzle together, but from opposite sides of the board, and the harder he pushed towards remembering, the more slipped away.

He couldn't explain the anger. He couldn't explain the guilt. And he couldn't explain the ache he felt when Stanford would talk about his twin–how his brother had ruined his chances to change the world.

It wasn't right.

_(It wasn't how it happened)_

And yet it was so _easy_ to cater towards.

..

..

..

The blue of the flames glowed just a little bit brighter.


End file.
